


The Image of A Ghost

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Personal spectre, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock's return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Because here was Sherlock. He wasn’t just the image haunting him; he was a real, tangible, thing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Image of A Ghost

The day he returned, everything went much better than expected. It was completely different, albeit absolutely puzzling, but there was no anger, no hatred, no rage; there didn’t seem to be forgiveness though, either.   
Sherlock had revealed himself while John was sitting in the flat. He was prepared for anything: for the punches, for the shock, for any volatile reaction. 

Instead, John just sighed. It was like Sherlock had never left.

The days dragged on. Mrs.Hudson occasionally popped in, but John was usually at work during these times. Three years later, and he had finally gotten most of his life back on track. Sherlock still noticed him weeping in the nights, finding broken glasses every once in a while; he didn’t do anything, because he believed there was nothing for him to do. 

It killed Sherlock seeing John like this. Even though Sherlock was back, John still seemed a ghost of who he was. He hardly ate, barely slept, and never really talked to his friends. Sherlock and John had good conversations, though they never were about the future. John always seemed to be dwelling on memories. 

A week of this passed by, John unchanged with Sherlock’s return. Sherlock wasn’t sure whether or not to be worried; emotions and coping were not his forte. So when Lestrade texted asking if he would like to know the details of a case, Sherlock jumped at the distraction, hoping he and John could fall back into their old routine. 

Lestrade came around an hour or so later. He had once or twice tried to contact John during the week when Sherlock returned, but John ignored the messages (like always). So both were a bit surprised when Lestrade walked into 221B.

The air grew a little awkward, John startled by this uninvited guest after three years without contact. He continued to sit on his chair drinking tea, ignoring Lestrade; the only thing he could think to do. Sherlock, sitting opposite, stood up to greet him.

They shook hands, and started to discuss the case, when their conversation was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass; John had dropped his tea, the cup smashing against the wooden floor. He stared at the two men, his mouth agape, his face drained of all color. 

“You can see him?”

Lestrade was very much confused, but in a moment the truth came rushing to Sherlock. At the same time he realized his friend had still thought him a personal specter, John seemed to collapse in on himself as he started to sob.

It took a few more seconds, but Lestrade soon understood what was occurring. John had thought that Sherlock was simply an illusion. So Lestrade quietly left the room, figuring the case could be solved a little later.   
Sherlock had not noticed Lestrade leave; his attention was focused on the friend who just realized his mental breakdown was now reality. Tentatively, he reached out to put a hand on John’s shoulder, the only action of comfort he could think of now.

As soon as John felt Sherlock’s hand, his head shot up, tears streaming down his face. He looked at Sherlock, desperately hoping it was a sick joke, yet dreading this was all a dream. 

Because here was Sherlock. He wasn’t just the image haunting him; he was a real, tangible, thing. 

John reached out, clutching at Sherlock’s long trench coat, searching to make sure his hand wouldn’t slip through an illusion of the air. But it was real. Everything was real.

Sherlock was really alive.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been going through my old works and posting them here. I'm not very fond of this; I don't like how it was written. But I'm fond enough. I saw a prompt on tumblr a long time ago, and this is what came of it.


End file.
